


Cherries

by estepheia



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal gains some insight in what it is like to spend an evening with a registered companion.... (set after the series - written before "Serenity" was released.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherries

# Cherries

“You wanted to see me?” Mal asked brusquely, noisily pushing the shuttle door open. He stopped in his tracks, gaping, when he saw her.

Inara sat with perfect repose, her hair picture perfect, and her dress… it was a dark purple gown he’d never seen before, a daring, long-sleeved brocade hybrid between a kimono and a dressing gown, that gave Inara’s skin an almost luminous quality. It whispered seductively when she rose to greet him, and the fabric shimmered. Her scent was subtle but enticing. Inara could have made prize winning roses weep with envy.

“Yes, thank you, Mal, for keeping me waiting for the last half hour.” Inara’s smile took the sting out of her words.

“Don’t look like it was terribly urgent,” Mal said, hovering in the shuttle doorway, neither in nor out.

“Mal, the day you see me fidget with impatience I will have to beg the Guild to accept my resignation.”

Taking Inara’s greeting as an invitation, Mal took a cautious step into the shuttle, and let his gaze roam, like always. Her clock stood in plain sight, but of course it was still turned off. Unlit Incense sticks had been distributed throughout the shuttle. In the far corner, Inara’s iron cast ceremonial oven was fired up. On the sideboard sat a lacquered tray bearing crystal glasses and a matching decanter filled with honey-colored liquid. Everything looked ballroom fancy. She had to be waiting for a truly big wig client.

Mal nodded at the bowl of black cherries sitting on the table in front of her. Maybe he was mistaken, but the fruit was pretty much glowing, as though they’d been given a solid scrub and polish to make them fit for clients’ eyes. A few tiny beads of water, too well-placed to be random, adorned their dark skin, picking up the subtle lighting of Inara’s shuttle and turning it into tiny flecks of brilliance. Perfect. Too perfect.

“And? Can you do it?” Mal asked, unable to keep his irritation out of his voice.

“Can I do what, Mal?” Inara asked.

“Tie a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue?”

It would be an exaggeration to say that Inara frowned. But Mal had known her long enough to recognize any minute signs of irritation.

“How strange, Jayne asked me the same thing. Only in his case it was my impression that he was genuinely interested in the answer and not in insulting me.”

“Yeah?” Mal put forward an expression half-way between innocence and indifference. “What did you tell him?”

“Nan-sheng.” Inara smiled sweetly but with a note of exasperation, plucked a cherry from the bowl and popped it into her mouth, complete with the stem. A moment later she pursed her lips and removed the stem from her mouth. It was tied into a perfect knot.

Mal’s brain blanked briefly. Hearing about it was one thing, seeing a demonstration was quite another. In the back of his head he could almost hear Jayne mutter something like “I’ll be in my bunk.”

“Basic training,” Inara said brightly, unobtrusively discarding the cherrystone she’d expertly palmed when removing the stem. “A six-year-old could do it.”

Mal looked disturbed at that, as she’d known he would. “Well then, what was so important?” he asked gruffly.

“I received a wave from the Guild. It would seem that a contract was taken out on your behalf.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time there’s a price on my head,” Mal said, missing her meaning by about a dozen light-years.

“You don’t understand. A contract. An appointment. It makes you my client.”

Mal’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Inara shot him the universal ‘men can be so dense’ glance, even as she patiently explained: “Someone took out a contract naming you as the beneficiary. The fee has already been paid in full.”

“This a joke? Cuz I ain’t laughing.” Mal stuck out his chin, the muscles in his jaw working.

“Mal, this is strictly business.” Inara opened a polished sandalwood casket and took out a transparent printout. “This is the wave from the Guild. Read it, if you don’t believe me.”

He recoiled from the missive as she’d known he would, yet at the same time he craned his neck to get a better look.

“So who…?”

“It doesn’t say. The buyer wished to remain anonymous.”

“Anonymous? Huh.” Mal stared blindly ahead, mentally going through the impressive list of people he knew: business contacts mostly, ninety percent of them smarmy weasels who’d rob him blind without so much as a ‘by your leave’, or worse, who’d put a bullet in his head without batting an eyelid. Not the kind of folks who’d want to do him a good turn. “Huh,” he said again, stumped.

“It’s perfectly legal. The fee was paid into the Guild account via a well-known core world trust fund,” Inara explained.

Mal briefly entertained the ridiculous notion that the crew had finally gotten fed up with all the gorram yelling and arguing between him and Inara and had wasted their cut on this colossally stupid idea. But even if they all chipped in, Doc and shepherd included – and no way in hell would Jayne ever cough up hard earned creds to pay for Mal getting a leg over – even then they couldn’t afford hiring a companion of Inara’s standing.

Inara was too accomplished, too beautiful. Mal found himself momentarily derailed by the sudden urge to touch her hair. Would it feel as soft and silky as it looked? He blinked and forced his thoughts back on track: “And this mysterious benefactor hired you because?”

“He didn’t. It was an open contract, out for several weeks. However, none of the companions in our part of the ‘verse deigned to pick it up. I don’t blame them, you’re not exactly—“ Inara paused, as though pondering ways to put the truth to him delicately.

“What? Come on, say it. I can take it like a man.” Mal stubbornly stuck out his chin.

“No offence, Mal, but you’re not exactly a desirable client,” Inara told him less than delicately.

“What? How can you say that! I’m quite the catch.” His voice rose with mock indignation that almost came close to hiding the very real indignation underneath. “See this manly jaw? See this? Now tell me again I’m not desirable!”

Inara’s heavenward glance was full of poise. Even her exasperation was pretty to look at. “Of course you are. If only the other companions knew you like I do,” she said sweetly. “Your penchant for thieving and brawling, your modesty, and the high esteem you have for their profession, why, I’m certain they’d fight claws and nails over the contract.”

He bristled at her sarcasm. “Yet you snatched it up.”

“The Guild waived their commission fee. It was too good an offer to resist. I have expenses. Dragon Well tea doesn’t come cheap. And besides, your business doesn’t exactly carry me to worlds brimming with prestigious opportunities.” Inara picked up a lacquered box, took out a long match, and struck it. One by one, Inara lit the incense sticks she’d distributed around her shuttle. Her every movement was refined, a perfection expression of grace. Every sound she made a tantalizing rustle, designed to make a man wonder about how her robe would sound were it allowed to smoothly glide to the floor and pool around her slender ankles…

Mal cleared his throat. “Lemme get this straight. You picked up a contract none of the other companions wanted ‘cuz your Guild sweetened the pot?”

Inara pursed her lips, blew out the match and placed it in the ornate brass ashtray on the table. The thin wisp of smoke that rose from its tip smelled homely like a burning log fire, but slowly the resinous smell of incense took over. “Not quite how I would have put it, but yes, that is the bottom line,” she said, making an inviting gesture that could mean the chair or the huge canopied bed. “So you see, this is strictly business.”

“Business, uhuh.” Mal made no move to sit where she’d indicated. And he studiously ignored the plush, inviting bed. “So what happens if I refuse? Do they strong-arm another companion to do it? Throw in a pension fund? Chisel the poor working gal’s name onto a marble wall of fame? How’s that for—?”

“Your benefactor will get reimbursed, if he makes himself known,” Inara interrupted.

“Fine. That’s settled then.” Mal turned on his heel and briskly headed for the door. “Tell ‘em I prefer blondes.”

“Your rejection will of course go down in my record,” Inara said.

Mal froze, one foot in the air. ‘Good’ a tiny, petty voice in his head said. But he knew how much pride Inara took in her work. No matter what he thought of her ‘business’, he had no right to hurt it deliberately.

“Fine, tell ‘em we had ourselves a jolly roll in the hay. That I’m a _liezhi chunren_ , a despicable fellow, truly _goushi boru_ , and should be struck off their client list. We wouldn’t want this kind of … of thing to happen again. And that’s final.” He stuck out his chin – again – and stalked off.

“Aren’t you in the least curious?” Inara’s voice stopped him again. He thought he detected a note of exasperation, but with Inara one could never be sure, thanks to her training. That was just the thing with a companion. You could never tell which part was authentic and which wasn’t.

“What? Curious? Who, me? No, of course not. Uh, ‘bout what?” He could be suave, he knew he could. So why in the blazes did he always fluster around this gorram woman?

“Mal, do you honestly expect me to believe that you never wondered what kind of service my clients receive from me?”

“No! Uh, I mean…” Okay, so he had wondered. A man would have to be a gorram saint not to. “Maybe. A few times. I mean, do numbers with 5 or more digits even count?”

“Mal! You could have just asked!”

“I thought I did. Okay, so maybe not in so many words.”

“You are impossible.” For a second he thought she’d hurl something at him, but then Inara recovered her poise. “Be that as it may, I will not accept money for services that I haven’t rendered. I will have to make more appointments on Beaumonde.”

Mal sighed, realizing that he’d never really stood a chance. “How long will this take?”

“The contract is for one evening. If we start now we’ll be finished by midnight.”

“Strictly business?” Mal asked.

“But of course,” Inara said, smiling.

Not a whole night. Just one evening, Mal thought. That shouldn’t be too hard. Barely an evening went by without one of the crew needing him for this or that. If Wash or Kaylee interrupted the, uh, proceedings, Mal and Inara could claim in all good conscience that an act of god had cut things short. Hell, Serenity could be hit by Reavers, if Mal were lucky.

“Would you like to start the hourglass?” Inara gestured towards the slender timepiece.

He couldn’t see a switch or button on the gorram thing. “Be my guest,” he said.

“Thank you, but it’s actually the other way round,” Inara said as she activated the hourglass. “You are the guest now.” Her robe rustled, soft and swishy, as she approached him with a smile that seemed oddly fake. A smile that was, perhaps, a little too perfect.

“Mr. Reynolds, I am so pleased that you honor me with your visit. How was your trip?”

“Huh?”

Inara knelt down to help him out of his shoes and into a pair of wooden sandals, providing him with a view of her cleavage that wasn’t exactly immodest but definitely tantalizing enough to attract his gaze. Flustered, Mal knocked over a doubtlessly antique vase. He caught it barely in time and with a sheepish “Oops” returned it to its little table.

Inara made no comment. She gracefully rose to her feet and clapped into her hands. Immediately, slow, sensuous lute-play issued from hidden loudspeakers, the perfect music to set the mood.

She offered him a selection of teas and spirits, even snacks, and who the hell had told her that he liked few things better than homemade apple pie? Her conversation was oddly stilted but very attentive. She laughed politely at his jokes, and did everything to make him feel witty and smart.

Mal wasn’t stupid. He knew she was putting on a show. It was nothing personal, just a skill acquired through many years of training. Within the next few hours everything was about Mal: the foot rub, the amazing massage with scented oils, the kisses and caresses, the way all his senses were galvanized, and finally the slow and perfect union of their bodies. It was nothing like any night he’d spent before. Nothing like his night with Nandi either, which had been all about mutual pleasure and not about business at all.

Being inside Inara was perfect, amazing even. Perfect timing, perfect physical release. Perfect afterglow, even. But something was less than perfect and for a while Mal couldn’t quite put the finger on what it was. Maybe it was the fact that Inara’s lipstick and hair still looked picture postcard perfect.

A few years back, Mal had sometimes worked for a fence on Greenleaf. A far cry from the likes of Badger, the man had owned a Zen garden, a large expanse of creamy looking sand, with a handful of large rocks in it. Around the boulders the sand had been raked into perfect circles. The man had always discussed trade there, claiming it filled him with serenity. Mal hadn’t felt anything of the kind, just the urge to kick up some sand and obliterate the fragile order.

Who’d have thought that being with a companion was the same? Not Mal, that’s for sure. He reckoned that some folk found it therapeutic, but he sure as hell didn’t. He’d just ‘grappled’ with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and it should’ve filled him with, well, satisfaction, but all it did was make him feel out of place.

Maybe he wasn’t good at mixing pleasure with business. Or maybe he just wasn’t the Zen type.

And yet, when she stroked him again, trailing kisses down his spine, his body responded readily. “Inara,” he groaned, not sure whether he wanted more or whether he wanted her to stop.

“Shhh,” she said, languidly kissing his reluctance away.

They were already several minutes into the encore, when Mal realized he was enjoying business too damn much. Stung, pride reared its head, and Mal bristled, he even tried to extricate himself. Gorram Reavers! Never around when you needed them. “Oh look, is that the time? Inara, the clock—”

“I know,” she said throatily, without having to look at the hourglass. “Our appointment ended twenty minutes ago.” Her lips wandered lower, and thinking suddenly became very hard. Mal blinked several times until finally the penny dropped. “So…?”

“So.” Inara affirmed.

“Huh,” Mal said, dumbfounded. And then he said it again, because he couldn’t think of anything suave or insightful or even smartass to say. “Huh.” But this time he sounded thoughtful.

And then he let his hands and lips speak for him, threaded fingers through her hair, deliberately messing up the style, because nothing in the ‘verse had any gorram business being this perfect, not even Inara, and he kissed her till her lipstick smeared. And this time it was better than perfect. This time it was real.

Later, when they lay exhausted, Mal squinted at her, deliberately and exaggeratedly sizing her up like a rancher sizes up a prize cow. “Say, about them cherries. You think you could run that by me again?”

He laughed when Inara thumped him with a pillow, then thumped her right back.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kurukami.  
> Many thanks to Sangpassionne for betaing this.


End file.
